The Flavor of Smartness

"What is the flavor of smartness?"

The kindergarten teacher asked that question of her students through the computer screen.

As an observer I wrote it down in my notes...

and promptly began to consider such a compelling question.

What is the flavor of smartness?

The kindergarteners looked through their screens at their teacher.

She was wearing a plastic shield over her face.

She was sitting in her empty classroom with the afternoon kindergarten teacher sitting a proper distance away.

The teacher lets the question sit in the air...and then quickly says that the flavor of smartness is chocolate chip cookies.

She leans in to the screen and asks her students what they think the flavor of smartness might be.

I am an extra box on the grid of people attending this virtual classroom.

I observe teachers for my job.

I watch them on the tightrope of teaching...twisting to connect with a student...walking with flare to model the latest educational concept...gripping the rope as they barely hang on as it sways with uncertainty and upheaval.

Mostly I observe beginning teachers...but sometimes I am gifted with a shining moment of academic clarity or super human compassion from the resident teacher that generously shares the classroom with and mentors my student teachers.

This was one of those times.

What is happening in virtual classrooms right now has never been done before.

It is innovative.

Creative.

Difficult.

Heartbreaking.

Silly.

Embarrassing.

Brilliant.

Teachers are exposed like never before.

The ones I see, labor for hours figuring out an app or a website or a way forward for students.

They read stories.

Do art projects.

Tackle science experiments.

Sing and dance.

Teach math and history...

all over a screen.

They try to make the distance shorter with familiarity.

They use pocket charts or posters or puppets that the students know from school.

They try to maintain the routines that made their classroom a community.

They smile and cheer over a screen.

What is left unsaid is the colossal loss for the students.

Classrooms are more than the shared space.

They are more than the students and teachers.

They are a magical brew of intimacy and knowing...the instantaneous teacher response to a student's facial expression or body language...the unwritten comfort of a teacher placing a student in a specific space...or the hand over hand guidance of beginning writing...or the millions of micro-encouraging moments that teachers do without even thinking...

the smile...the eyebrow uplift...the wink...the nod...the deep breath.

It's the give and take of conversation...and commotion...

that kids and adults have everyday in the classroom.

All of that is lost today.

But for a split second, the magic happened over the screen with that mind-tickling question.

*****

Eight weeks earlier...that same mentor teacher used her decades of knowledge of five year olds and her deep understanding that all students want to learn...and tried something unusual with a student who was struggling.

It was center time and this student was working on handwriting and letter formation. 

The student put his head down.

Forming words with a pencil, fitting it onto a line...it all seemed like too much.

Overwhelming.

In order to avoid that, the student left the table and meandered over to the easel. 

He crawled underneath it.

Positioned himself like the roly poly bugs the kindergarteners find in the garden.

Most teachers would cajole the student...or reprimand the student...or sigh at the student and imply that the student was making a bad choice.

The master teacher chose none of those options.

Instead, she was curious.

She asked a question:

"I see you are over here in a tucked in place but you don't look happy. Do you know why?"

The student pointed at the table.

She asked him if he would like to try writing in this small tucked in space.

He nodded.

The teacher created a hard, stable writing platform resting on two wooden blocks...

AND THE STUDENT WROTE.

After a while, the student walked himself back over to the larger table where students were working on handwriting.

The teacher made space for the student to learn.

She sent the message that she knew the student could do the work.

She offered her encouragement and her belief in him.

She adjusted and modified.

While at the same time holding the student to the same expectations as other students.

Her ability to be curious instead of angry allowed the moment to be educational and productive.

I just took notes.

*****

What is the flavor of smartness?

Like so much of life, there is no right answer.

It is wide open.

Negotiable.

Is it the crisp freshness of a crunchy apple?

The cozy of hot buttered cinnamon toast?

The comfort of ginger peach tea?

The tang of an orange?

The exotic gift of mangoes?

The flavor of smartness is within every student.

It takes a master chef to see the beauty in each ingredient.

To find a way to bring out the flavors in a complex dish.

Whether it is done over a screen or in the classroom, 

teachers find a way to bring out the flavor of smartness in their students.

Indescribable.

Ineffable.

Sometimes impossible...yet they do.

May we stop and notice the impossible done with grace.

Thank a teacher. Today.

Thoughts on a Normal Day in the Time of Coronavirus

From the essay: Let Me Hold You While I May by Mary Jean Irion



Today was a normal day...Patrick home from Spring Break, Caroline off to school, John off to work, dogs begging for a walk and me with work to do.

Dinner to make.
Chores to be done.
Emails to reply to.
Bills to pay.

It all feels very surreal as I know a tsunami of illness will soon be consuming my community and my country.

We can pretend that it's not coming...but with social media, we can allow ourselves a peek into what is happening in confined and locked down Italy, in China, in South Korea.

We get the notices that games are cancelled, meetings delayed, events postponed and
schools sure to be closing soon.

But, today, is a normal day.
Sunshine and spring breezes.

I don't know anymore than the average American...but I can feel the anxiety...the unsureness of the moment and I have student teachers to guide...and so I offer some thoughts.

This is the email that I sent to my student teachers this morning.

I hope it helps.

*****
We are all wondering what is going to happen in the next few weeks with our teaching program, the EdTPA and the coronavirus escalation.

It's a serious question that has no good answer.

So, today, we get to soak in the questions
that have no clear answer.

Not everyday is given to considering the hard questions of life...but today is one.

None of us have ever dealt with a pandemic before.

We don’t know how quickly it will spread, how much it will impact our health or the larger effect on our communities and vulnerable loved ones.

I have been in isolation before when my son Patrick was three years old and had leukemia.
He had zero detectable white blood cells and so we were quarantined for over 60 days...
just me and Patrick.

I was scared out of my mind that he would catch any and all terrible diseases (he did not!)...and I was mad about it and did not want to be quarantined at all.
I wanted to protest and pout.

Sometimes, it's a terrible thing to be an adult and that was one of those times.

Being quarantined was the safest thing to do...
and so we did it...
begrudgingly...
but we wanted more than just sitting at home.

We needed to be away from people.

But did we really have to stay cooped up inside?

The doctors just told us to stay away from people so I made the executive decision to take some adventures away from home...and away from people.
We got creative.

We got really good at finding empty parks, empty beaches, empty paths to walk slowly.
We took long drives and noticed the beauty just outside the window.
We danced and played and enjoyed our days.

It was during these 60 days that I developed this mantra:
Nothing is worth more than this day.

Our day, this day, is all we have...even if it is unknown or unexpectedly hard...
it is still a precious gift.

Don’t spend time worrying about the program...
we will find a way to have you earn your credential and get you ready to find a job.

Do spend time finding ways to support one another through this unexpected, weird time.

If you need a place to stay or a ride to somewhere or food or anything, I can help.

My daughter is a brand new nurse in the largest most critical care hospital in Oregon, so I am thinking of ways to support her and the people she works with...
if you have a good idea, let me know.

As with anything difficult, there will be amazing opportunities and revelations that we would never learn otherwise...
I’m curious to see those.

I believe that this time will provide a unique opportunity for us to grow our hearts bigger,
to become more generous,
to find a way to see ourselves in others.

It feels like perfect timing for that.
Sending love to all of us.

One of the favorite parts of my Normal Day: these guys! 

The Little Things

It's been a hard few days...real hard...and when that happens I sneak off to one of my favorite places in my town: 

a redwood grove.

California redwoods are slow growing and have no business being in my part of California.

They are coastal.

I'm not.

They don't like heat.

My summers routinely have 100 degree days.

Every single one of these redwoods is an outrageous miracle.

They didn't get the memo that this isn't their habitat.

That's because they were tenderly planted by people who should have known better.

People who didn't listen to the odds-makers.

Why not have a redwood grove in Davis?

So, in the late 1930's a band of renegade redwood lovers, planted and watered and BELIEVED IN the redwoods...

BELIEVED IN the beauty of this dream.

They kept at it until the impossible happened.

Voila!

90 years later we have a redwood grove in the middle of the central valley!

Every time things feel heavy...or discouraging...or impossible...

I make my way to the redwood grove and find comfort in this tiny grove of impossibility-made-real.

I soak up the beauty.

I imagine the people who took the time to plant and tend the baby redwoods so long ago.

I thank them.

So, as the past few days have been careening and I watch Republicans choose themselves over our country...and watch a rude, despicable person lead our country...and watch with fatigue at the vendettas and the grievances from a man who has literally everything...I come to the redwoods.

I decide to make it a Daily Double.

I'll see your Impossible-That-Is-Real and double it...

calling my son, who the world deems intellectually disabled, AT HIS COLLEGE.

Yes, just like those people in the central valley heat who planted redwoods, 

some educators planted another incredible impossibility:

college options for those with an intellectual disability.

Who does that?

Who believes so much in dignity and equity and freedom that they build the impossible??

The same kind of people who plant redwoods in Davis.

The kind of people who don't listen to the nay-sayers.

The people who know that the long odds are worth it.

The people willing to do the work.

The people who tend so carefully to the people that the rest of the world overlooks.

I called Patrick, my 20 year old with Down Syndrome...and he didn't pick up.

College life is like that, you know.

He's busy.

So I continued my walk and looked up.

Redwoods have soft bark...it's thick and tough but springy to the touch...it's a bit of magic...

a reminder that just because you're big doesn't mean you can't be soft too...

and redwoods have incredibly durable, beautiful wood underneath that bark.

So softness is no indicator of strength.

As I am walking, my phone rings...with Facetime.

My 20 year old is smiling and joyful.

Turns out: college is pretty awesome.

He's doing his laundry.

Folding clothes and chatting.

Laughing and smiling.

He's got his friends close by...

they share stories with me of what's been going on...

filling in the details of the little bits I hear about Patrick's days.

It's so ordinary that it takes my breath away.

I'm staring at Patrick's redwood grove of Impossiblility-Made-Real.

When Patrick was born, all the outside world told me were the things Patrick was not going to be able to do.

College?

Are you kidding?

That didn't exist.

As I held tiny newborn Patrick, my obstetrician told me what a gift it was that Patrick would be living with me for the rest of his life.

Implied that he would be a very large lamp in our living room.

Going nowhere.

No one told me Patrick would have dreams of his own.

Or thoughts of his own.

Or opinions.

No one - that I knew - imagined a world where Patrick would be a vibrant adult.

But somebody did.

On the other side of the country, a group of parents and a group of educators created a program where an independent, supported adulthood could begin.

They planted it.

Tended it.

Ignored the non-believers.

Voila!

College for people with disabilities.

Why shouldn't people with disabilities do their laundry with friends?

Why shouldn't people with disabilities attend college?

Why shouldn't they imagine a life with a solid job, a group of friends, and supported living?

Of course they should.

So today, I'm sprinkling the world with two stories of POSSIBILITY.

With enough tending, redwoods can grow in unlikely places.

With enough tending, people with Down Syndrome can go away to college.

In a cosmic way, I think that the redwoods and Patrick at college are intertwined.

There's no doubt that living in a place where the impossible really does exist

 helps to nurture other crazy, out-of-bounds dreams.

So, know that the impossible IS possible.

If you're lucky, you might even get a call.

You might witness the ordinary routine of laundry being done far away...

with smiles and chatter from friends.

You might learn the perfectly boring details of what your son had for dinner...

or what he's doing this week-end.

You might be graced with the little details of life.

That we all know aren't little at all.

You might be privileged to see a life that is an outrageous miracle.

Made possible by those that believed in the impossible.

Grateful doesn't cover it.